The Hungry Wolf
by BarborkaZ
Summary: Raised to be a King of Winter, Theon Stark, also known as The Hungry Wolf never settled for anything less than what HE himself wanted. The story of his life, beginning at the moment he laid the Winter Crown upon his head. Rated M to be safe!


Hello :)

This story is just my little attempt to show a bit of the North's history. The story was born in my head few days ago and I just couldn't help myself (my writing about asoiaf is always connected with a lot of guilt because I know how much GRRM hates fanfiction but I just love the story and the world he built so much that I really can't help myself)

My story is set long before the events of AGOT. The main character is King Theon Stark.

According to The World of Ice and Fire, Theon Stark was the King who defended the North against the Andal invasion and waged wars throughout his entire life. And just as the Andal invasion was beginning, the Kings of Winter managed to subdue the Boltons. It's not specified if it was Theon himself or one of his predecesors who defeated the Boltons, only that Theon allied with them to defeat the Andals, so this story/chapter (depending on your reviews) is in no way accurate.

I own absolutely nothing of the wonderful world GRRM created for us. This is my own imagining of the history, made purely for my own entertainment.

Enjoy!

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 **THE RED KING**

One single nod, barely recognizable, and he was gone from the sight of men forever. A large stone fell on the ground with a loud thud, sealing his tomb once and for all, the sound echoing in the underground complex, the only disturbance of the perfect silence that spread all around. As the echo grew weaker and weaker, he could hear his sister's ragged breath as she willed herself not to drop a single tear. In life, he had little patience for tears or other signs of weakness, they both knew, and it would be foolish to think death would have softened him even a little.

His father was many things but forgiving was not one of them, every man who ever met him knew that much and he would definitely never stand for tears at his own burying. Anger, resentment, promises of vengeance, yes, but never tears. He knew that and his sister knew it even better. He looked at her, her face a perfect imitation of the stone statue she gazed upon, hard and cold, betraying no emotions she might have felt. An unforgiving ruler of an unforgiving land who raised unforgiving children. _How poetic_ , he thought, and even more poetic will be his vengeance for his father's untimely demise.

 _Hard land breeds hard men,_ he always used to say, same words his own sire told him and his sire's sire before him, _and there is no place for weakness for winter is coming_!

Winter is coming... _I am the winter_ , he thought, and winter is coming for those sons of whores that stole their King from them!

His sister touched his hand softly and with another nod, he offered her his hand and they both set off from the newly crafted stone statue of yet another King with a sword laid bare on his knees and a fierce direwolf by his side to guard him. Their boots touching the hard stone floor as they slowly walked, was all they could hear, the air around them warmer and fresher as they neared the staircase that would lead them from the crypts and into the open courtyard of Winterfell. Ascending one stair after another, he could feel the soft breeze of late spring caress his cool cheek, his shoulder long hair ruffling ever so slightly.

As he stepped through the door to the crypts, his sister on his arm, he could see every resident of Winterfell standing there, waiting for him and him alone.

"Hail King Theon," someone called as he stopped to look at his people. One after another, men, women and children alike dropped to their knees, repeating the words of the first speaker.

"Hail King Theon," his sister repeated as well when they all kneeled, letting go of his arm and falling to her knees, her grey eyes glued to his own.

-.-

The Old King was not buried for even a fortnight when one after another, the northern lords started to arrive into Winterfell's great hall with armies at their backs, calling for justice with eagerness rivalled only by that of her husband's. She allowed herself a slight hope that maybe with her good-father's death, the war might finally end but deep inside, she knew such hope was a folly. Her husband was slow to forgive just as he was quick to anger and even if he would not wish to war anymore, The Winter Crown would not stay on his head for long had his people realized he had no desire to avenge his own father, their _King_.

The domain of the Kings of Winter, domain won by hundreds of wars just like this one, was much larger than that of the Red Kings and yet, the Boltons of Dreadfort managed to resist the might of Winterfell for centuries. Winning and losing in equal measures, the two opposing houses sought to fulfil only one single ambition – supremacy over the entire North, from the Gift all the way to the Neck. The Starks of Winterfell held the upper hand as of now but their good fortune was as likely to turn as it was to continue.

She looked to her right. Her royal husband sat the highest chair in the room, wearing the Winter Crown with ease only a man born for it could muster. She could recall a thousand occasions when she caught him looking longingly at it as his father wore it and now, at last, his birthright rested upon his head. And just like his father before him, their eldest son, the newly appointed crown prince, a boy of no more than eight, threw the same lustful glances upon the iron and bronze crown. He stood right by his father's side as the King listened to his bannermen devising battle plans to bring the Boltons to their knees once and for all. He had grey eyes and dark hair as so many of their blood did but unlike most of the Stark men, her son was very tall and too scrawny for his age, very similar to his father, yet their structure never stopped either of them from facing much older and much more muscular opponents and beating them.

"The Boltons are on the verge of defeat," Theon's brother said, disturbing her thoughts. "We ought to press our advantage and bring the Red Kings to their knees just as father dreamed."

"You forget brother," her husband replied slowly, his expression unreadable. "We have lost our men as well, not to mention our King, in out last encounter. Maybe even more than King Rogar."

The newly appointed King's brother only smirked but did not reply. She was certain she knew what he wanted to say but did not allow himself to in front of their bannermen. _Rogar needs his men more than we need ours_ , she heard him say so many times before as he urged his brother to continue their father's crusade without delay and she knew it was the truth. The war between the Starks of Winterfell and the Boltons of Dreadfort went on and off for hundreds of years and it was her father by law who once again destroyed the fragile peace made between the two great houses several years ago and Dreadfort's army grew thinner and thinner as the war continued, while the Stark forces were far from depleted. Theon's father sought the glory denied to his ancestors who failed to bring the House of Bolton under their authority and by the looks of it, he would have succeeded, if not for the one well-aimed arrow that robbed him of his life. With the death of the King, his heir ordered their army to cease fighting while he called for more reinforcement from their bannermen, unwilling to risk more lives than was necessary to take Dreadfort. Now, the reinforcements were in Winterfell and the new King of Winter, her own husband, sought the same goal as his father and she could not tell whether he was more motivated by his father's death or by the need to claim the glory for himself.

Theon was a warrior, she knew that much since the day she met him but she was not and she yearned for peace. The wars in the North had gone for long enough. Thousands of years of bloodshed and for all she knew, it might very well continue for another thousand years.

The North used to be divided into dozens of kingdoms and each had their own King. All but one knelt before the might of Winterfell. Flints, Umbers, Glovers and so many more were once Kings of their own domains and yet now they sat in Winterfell's great hall, raging about the death of a Stark when in their own time, they would have prided with killing him themselves. The Marsh Kings, the Barrow Kings... they all knelt to the Starks of Winterfell. All but the Red Kings.

The Red Kings opposed Winterfell the longest but history dictates that even they will bend the knee sooner or later. The Starks are the descendants of Bran the Builder, they are said to have the blood of the Children as well as the First Men and they are conquerors. She only wondered once they take the Dreadfort, will it be enough? Will the wars finally end? Or will the Lords of Winterfell want to claim another domain?

-.-

His head was pounding so hard he expected it to burst at any moment. He could feel hot trickle of blood course down his temple and jaw and another across his eye and his head was spinning. A man with a flayed man upon his breastplate ran at him, raising his greatsword while screaming and Theon only barely managed to block the man's assault. As he tried to back away and find his footing, he tripped over a dead body, falling to the ground. He fell flat on his face. Managing to raise himself a bit upon his elbows, he turned on his back with a painful scream, raising his own sword quickly to block yet another attack upon him. His bastard sword and the greatsword sang as they met and his arm ached from the collision.

 _A King of Winter for one moon,_ he thought as he saw the man raise his sword in order to deal a fatal blow. He clenched the hilt of his sword, prepared to block it once again despite the pain in his arm but unsure whether it will be enough to save his life. The sword was right above the man's head, ready to fall down upon Theon's body any second when a horse hit into the man, throwing him several feet away. Theon raised his head only to see blood flowing from the poor man, his head squashed into the ground as the horse's leg stepped upon it. He let his pounding head fell back down on the ground and took a deep breath.

The sky was so black it reminded him of the small pond in Winterfell's Godswood and for a brief moment, he wished to be back there, to say his prayers at what very well could be the end of his short life. Within seconds, he could feel drops of water falling upon his face. Were the Gods crying for him and his own or for the Boltons, he wondered.

His father taught him that a King of Winter should never hide behind his soldiers and so he led the first wave of the attack, just as he had many times before, only this time, he was not in charge of the cavalry as usual, instead he led soldiers on foot.

The Boltons were far from stupid and with their forces weakened, they retreated behind the walls of Dreadfort. But, unluckily for them, Theon was not stupid either. Before he departed for Winterfell to rest his father's bones among their ancestors and wait for the remaining Lords of the North whose forces were not the part of their original host, he ordered siege weapons to be built before his return.

The siege towers were almost at the walls and Theon and his men ready to climb upon them when they were hit by cavalry from all sides. His own cavalry was at the rear of their host, not expecting to be used during a siege. Some of his men chose to climb the siege towers and try their luck upon the walls and some of them chose to stay on the ground and face the enemy, Theon among them.

He managed to hold his own for a long time, avoiding the hooves of the horses and the arrows raining upon them from the walls, slashing horse legs wherever he could and fighting off every enemy that came at him. Young and old, all Dreadfort loyalists shared the dream of claiming the head of the King of Winter and those who tried had died. One man came the closest though, smaller than Theon but twice his weight at least, with an axe in each of his hands he came at him. Theon took a blow to the head before he managed to run his sword through the man's belly and if not for the quality of his half-helm, he would have been meeting the Gods. His head rang like a bell the moment it met with the man's axe and he was certain he could never forget the pain and nausea that followed it. Somehow, he himself did not know how, he stood his ground and killed him only seconds before falling to his knees and throwing up his morning fast right upon the freshly made corpse.

The battle raged on, only King Theon was no longer part of it. He could not move, he could not stand up and he certainly could not fight. The battle turned into a mixture of screams, dead bodies, bloody swords and axes and shields lying on the cold hard ground but he could only focus on the black sky that let its tears fall down, the sound of clashing swords seemed to him as distant as the sky itself. The rain made no differences, it fell down upon the fighting figures the same way it fell upon the dead and mutilated bodies.

As they marched east from Winterfell, Theon was certain Dreadfort will fall at last and the Red Kings will be brought to their rightful place – to their knees before the Kings of Winter but he was not so certain anymore. He was not even certain if he will live long enough to see the result of the battle. Are his forces winning or are they running away as fast as they can to avoid being flayed alive? There were so many Starks, so many Kings and Princes flayed over the entire conflict between the two royal families and Theon swore to his ancestors and to his Gods that he will see their pain and suffering avenged. But now he laid on the ground, unsure of his survival, picturing himself meeting his forebears in the afterlife and having to admit to them that he has failed in his noble quest of vengeance.

He gripped the hilt of his dagger still attached to his belt, ready to end his own life should the Boltons win. He would never give them the satisfaction of seeing his pain. They may flay him and they may wear his skin afterwards as their ancestors did but he will not give them the pleasure of his pain. He will not give them the joy of seeing him beg for death.

The Dreadfort had been so close that he could almost see himself entering the ancient castle, its people kneeling in his presence. He wanted it so badly! So badly he wished to be the one to take it for the family.

His eyes started to close against his will. He could no longer hear the sounds of battle, only the rain. It was falling heavily now, hammering into his breastplate with a giant direwolf engraved into it. It was a soothing sound and it made him yearn for the warmth and safety of his bed. He gripped the hilt of his dagger even harder, unsheathing it. He could not afford to sleep, he knew, but there seemed to be only little he could do.

 _A wolf lulled to sleep by rain_ , was his last thought before darkness claimed him.

-.-

There were times when he resented his brother for being older. He hated him even, when they were younger. Theon was the eldest, the crown prince, the future King. _His_ future King. At times, he thought he will not be able to bow to his brother the same way they both bowed to their father but when the time came, he was a different man entirely. He learned to accept that Theon is the one who will bear the privilege of the Crown just as he will bear the worries and issues that went hand in hand with it. He might have been jealous of his brother when they were boys yet as he grew older, he started to appreciate the position of the King's second son.

Theon stirred in his sleep. He raised his eyes to look at his brother's slim form, curious if he will open his eyes at last. Theon was unconscious for a second day and even though the maester that took care of their wounded assured him his King is no longer in peril for his life, he worried.

He could still recall every detail of the moment when they brought his older brother before him. The front of his breastplate was completely cleansed by the rain as if he were to only ride for battle, not leaving it and when they removed his helmet he could see half of Theon's face was covered with dried blood and pieces of his own vomit. There were small cuts upon his legs and arms where enemy weapons brushed his skin and one arrow that only pierced through the armour on his shoulder, never truly reaching his body but those injuries were of little consequence, the real damage was done when he was hit into his head. He held Theon's half-helm in his hands, brushing his fingers against the dent someone made in it while watching the maester tend to him. As the maester took care of his brother, pushing different kinds of herbs into his throat and spreading ointments around his wounds, Theon regained consciousness only to lose it few moments later several times, occasionally throwing up upon the poor maester's grey robe.

The battle was far from the easy win they predicted while on their way east. The Boltons expected them to come much sooner, unaware that their enemy's King had died and his successor called for reinforcements but they made use of every day their enemy did not attack, boosting Dreadfort's defences, training new soldiers and devising strategies. As the Stark host arrived at Dreadfort, there was no one to challenge them, every single man hidden behind its gate.

When still under their father's command, their roles in the army were clear. Theon would always lead the cavalry and his younger brother would command the archers, both of their positions derived from their greatest strengths but despite having no experience in leading anything but the cavalry, Theon decided he would be the one to storm the castle first. The Lords of the North protested loudly against their King risking his life so recklessly, but Theon would have none of it. He has set his mind on leading the first wave and he would do it even if he would have to kill every northern lord in order to do so.

He stayed with the archers, daring to march them close enough so that they could eliminate the bowmen upon Dreatfort's walls, to make the journey as safe as possible for his older brother. Then, just as it seemed that the taking of the castle will be the easiest thing in the world, the Bolton cavalry hit them. He was not sure if they were hidden in the nearby woods or if they managed to get out of the castle through a secret entrance but it was obvious that the Stark host has fallen into their trap.

Within seconds, the battle turned into a complete chaos. His archers aimed their arrows at the horses and their riders, while he called for their own cavalry that guarded their rear and as soon as they arrived in front of the castle, their bows were useless. He remembered seeing their cavalry riding into that of the Boltons', he remembered noticing that the Bolton archers still fired arrows even though their own men were there as well but most of all, he remembered the fear he felt for his brother's life. He was right in the middle of it all.

Theon was a formidable fighter, despite his appearance, or maybe even thanks to it. His opponents always underestimated him when they saw his thin form, no muscles to speak of, and carrying a bastard sword unlike most Northmen who favoured greatswords or large axes and warhammers. Their father wielded Ice both in delivering justice and in battles, the sword comfortable in his hands and even though his eldest was trained since a very young age to wield the family heirloom as well when his time should come, Theon always preferred smaller swords.

Theon stirred again and as he raised his head, he could see his brother's eyes slowly opening before quickly closing again in pain. "Wh…," he tried to speak but his throat was too dry.

He stood up quickly, grabbing a cup of water and holding it to his brother's mouth. Theon drank quickly, most of the water pouring all over his face instead of into his mouth. The King started to cough and his brother quickly put the cup away.

As he turned from him, Theon tried to sit up in his bed, managing to raise himself a few inches before falling back down onto the furs that made his bed.

"Rest, brother," he said before turning to a man guarding the entrance to the King's tent. "Find the maester, now!" he commanded in rough voice.

"Where am I?" Theon asked, looking at his brother.

"In a tent," he replied with a mocking smirk. Theon narrowed his eyes, making abundantly clear that he was not in the mood for jokes. He sighed. "Right outside of Dreadfort."

"Wh…what…" Theon started to cough. "What happened?" he asked when he was able to speak again.

"Their cavalry hit us hard but we prevailed," he replied. "We breached the gate with heavy losses but we have control of the castle now. Every single Bolton man is in dungeons, awaiting your judgment."

Theon nodded approvingly. "Good!" He tried to sit up again and as his brother rushed to help, he waved him away with his hand. He managed a sitting position just as the maester ran inside the tent.

"Sire, please, you need to lie down. Your head injury…"

Theon raised his hand again to shut the maester up. "What I need is the Red King falling to his knees in front of me," he growled.

He sat down on a chair near the bed, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward, watching his brother's white face and when the maester looked to him for help, he merely shook his head. There was no point in trying to argue with King Theon, not when his mind was set upon certain task.

"Send someone to the dungeons," Theon ordered, meeting his brother's eyes. "Tell the Huntsman I will accept his allegiance if he wishes to save his people's lives. Otherwise they will be put to the sword and Dreadfort to the torch!"

"Should we not execute him and burn his castle?" the King's younger brother asked. "Winterfell was put to the torch twice when they conquered it, why not do the same?" he continued fiercely.

"I want them on their _knees_ ," Theon replied. "I want them to be _our_ servants, not corpses."

"They will betray us the first opportunity they get."

"Then we will beat them again," he said. "Rodrik…" Theon growled when his brother made no effort to move from his current position. "We will bring them to their knees just as father dreamed," the King repeated his brother's own words spoken to him not so long ago.

He looked at the ground before meeting his brother's intense gaze. A small smile appeared on his face as he nodded. "Aye, just as father dreamed."

-.-

He felt like he had drank every single drop of ale in the entire North by himself as the world was spinning around him. The maester claimed it was due to his injury on the battlefield and that it shall pass with time but it definitely did not feel like it would stop any time soon. Ever since he had opened his eyes his head spun and ached so badly that he could no longer remember what it felt like before. That too shall pass, the maester said. Theon could only hope he was right.

He had no memory of the battle and the harder he tried to recall the fight, the harder was the pounding of his head. He wanted to know! He wanted to remember how many Bolton men he has slain, he wanted to know which bastard managed to hit him so hard he had troubles standing even days after. All he could recall was him throwing up upon a corpse, nothing else.

He walked out from his tent. His soldiers were lined up in two large groups that faced each other with only a small path left between them so that their _guests_ might walk through. Every soldier in the first line held a spear and a white round shield with a grey direwolf's head engraved into it. So many wolves and so many spears to be seen by the Red King as he will pass through them to face a _true_ wolf that wore an iron and bronze crown shaped into swords.

His legs were unsteady and every now and then, he felt the contents of his belly wanting to leave the same way they came in. Nonetheless, he stood straight, taller than most men around him, savouring the feel of victory as the Bolton patriarch slowly neared him, his family's crown still on his head and a group of his people, his own sons among them, at his back.

Theon never met the man before but now they stood in front of one another, exchanging cold gazes, both willing the other to give up and look away.

His brother beside him shifted his weight from one leg to another and casually rested both of his hands on the hilt of his greatsword. Both Stark and Bolton looked away then and turned their gazes to the young prince.

Theon smirked unconsciously at his brother's silent threat and when he shifted his focus back to the Bolton, the Red King was looking somewhere behind him. "We are equals, you and I," he stated simply, his voice unpleasant to Theon's ears.

"Not anymore," Theon replied, pride swelling inside his chest.

Rogar the Huntsman narrowed his eyes, giving him another hard look. "I have not bent my knee yet."

"Yet," Theon said in return. "Bend your knee, my lord. Bend your knee now and I give you my word no more of your men will die."

Another silent stare contest followed his words. Theon was on guard to catch any emotion that might cross his face, the smallest indication of the internal battle that must have raged within him, yet the opposing King's face was as hard and unreadable as Theon's own. His eyes were much paler than Theon's but the grey in them was undeniable and not for the first did Theon wonder whether somewhere, sometime in their long history, there might have been a daughter of Winterfell that married into Dreadfort to ensure peace among the two houses, the union erased from men's memory when the battles between them continued. Or if the many similarities between their families were merely the result of both lineages descending from the First Men.

Rogar Bolton raised his chin a little, defiance evident now in his face. Theon narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling uneasy about the man in front of him, his left hand clenching the hilt of his sword unknowingly, anger swelling up in him as the Red King still stood high, his crown still upon his head.

"You shall see me on my knees, Stark," the Red King growled through clenched teeth. "But do not think _this_ over!"

Theon could feel his blood rushing in his body, his anger commanding him to behead the man at the spot and just then did Rogar descend on his right knee.

King Theon let out a breath he did not realize he was holding, satisfaction quenching his anger as the Red King finally found his rightful place in the Starks' presence. He turned to his brother who mirrored his pleased expression. Returning his attention to the kneeling man, he took the Red Crown from his head and turning it over in his hands, he looked at Bolton's sons and those that came with them. One after another, the entire party dropped to their knees, giving him distasteful looks as they raised their eyes to his face.

"Rise, my friends," Theon said, mocked sweetness creeping into his voice.

-.-

He was still but a boy when his father promised him that one day, he shall see their banner flying above Dreadfort, above the flayed man that haunted many Starks. And he _did_. He saw the Starks' direwolf float above the great hall of Dreadfort, several feet above the flayed man and he _relished_ the sight!

Dreadfort belonged to his family at last and not only had the Boltons bend the knee after thousands of years of warring, during which they delivered some humiliating defeats to the Kings of Winter, but it was _Theon_ who made them kneel. He was a King for no longer than two moons and he had already preceded dozens of his predecessors with his achievement. It will be _him_ and no one else who will be marked by history as the one who brought the Red King's domain under Winterfell's rule.

He mounted his steed, giving one last look to Dreadfort before spurring the beast beneath him on. The direwolf flew high above the entire North now, not to be dethroned for millennia to come and so the man who would be known to history as The Hungry Wolf rode towards his ancient home, sons of his family's gravest enemy at his back and the crown of the Red Kings in his hand, ready to be melted.

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 **Author's Note:** I think this story would work fine as a one-shot but if you'd be interested, I'd be more than happy to write more - there's the Andal invasion to come, after all.

For those that read my other story "Ice Dragon": I' m very very sorry but for now, the story is on hold. I have revised and changed the story a bit only few weeks ago and I'm planning to edit the existing chapters soon but I'm not sure when the next chapter'll be done.

As always, if there are any mistakes in the story let me know, please. And I would **LOVE** to hear your thoughts.


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